


Warrior

by Muspell



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9631655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muspell/pseuds/Muspell
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky has the eyes of a soldier.Until he breaks.





	1. Broken doll

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by  Vibidi 
> 
> (thank you so much <3 )

He browses his social media accounts, uninterested, while lying sprawled on his hotel bed. Otabek couldn’t meet him this time, so they just settle for texting cat videos and small talk. Taunts, really. The first GPF they spent together, the one they met, Otabek couldn’t reach the podium, yet next year they were side by side, silver and gold together, Viktor clutching his own bronze by their side on his first appearance since the hiatus. That was quite a stunt to pull, specially beating Katsudon for less that one point after months of not training at all.

Not that Yuri will ever tell him that.

Now, the twice GPF gold medalist, as he likes to remind people, the champion - _not the fairy -_  is waiting for the next morning to finally have a chance to secure his place, bringing him one step closer to pulling Viktor’s legacy down.

And he’s sure he can make it, especially with Otabek by his side, who has encouraged him and cheered for him since they have met. Who always has the right words to say at the right time when things go all shades of wrong.

Who’s currently calling him cute for not accepting Viktor and Katsudon’s offer for dinner. “They’re disgusting, it’s self preservation,” he replies. Otabek calls it for what it is: bullshit. Sure, Yuri knows it was supposed to be a date until they spotted him wandering alone through the corridors; he knows they didn’t intend to actually take him. Maybe it was common courtesy, or a reflex. Or pity. He’s all for a free meal, but never out of pity.

So he stayed. Otabek stayed. In another floor, discussing his short program with his coach. Or that’s what he says, texting him every two minutes, answering every little message almost instantly.

The fucker should pay more attention or he’ll never snatch the gold from Yuri’s neck.  “I never will, I’ll earn it.” He replies, and Yuri snorts. He’ll have to put on quite a show to defeat his short program.

He rolls on the bed, his long hair trapped under his shoulders. He pulls it out and ties it on a sloppy bun on the back of his head: he hasn’t cut it since he was a Junior and it was already brushing the length of his shoulderblades. It’s nice, it’s not like he doesn’t like it, but it’s fucking annoying. And it doesn’t really help with the nicknames.

He’s grown broader and sharper, clear muscles where there was baby fat before, but the name still _stands._ The Russian Fairy. The grace of his moves and the softness on his features only add to the fucking character, despite the permanent scowl he makes sure the cameras see on a daily basis.

He’s no one’s fucking fairy, he’s no one’s dream pixie shit. He’s a warrior. A soldier. And he’ll prove it on the ice.

 

* * *

 

 

For once, he won’t have to deal with JJ: his now-wife is expecting. Twins, they say. Two more of those in the world, fucking wonderful. Chulanont seems to have grown a lot since the last time, earning a well deserved spot at the competition, but the last place to take is for some guy he hasn’t since before. Nineteen years, French, tall and charming and fucking LOUD. One of those.

JJ isn’t here but he has to put up with _him._ He only hopes it’s just a facade for the crowd and the French kid’s not that irritating. He has enough on his plate already with the two lovebirds and their number one fan.

Good thing Otabek is around.

Good thing to have him warming up before the Short Skate starts, gliding confidently by his side. Glancing at him from time to time, just to smile and move along.

Yuri can’t help but grin every time their eyes meet. There’s something about Otabek, radiating from him; something that him feel safe, understood. Happy.

He knows what it means, he knows but he won’t say. Ever. He won’t become Viktor. Those two are gross; he refuses.

No matter how deeply in love he is with his best friend.

“Distracted, princess?” He feels a cold shiver run down his spine at the same time as the hot breath makes contact with the back of his neck. He moves forward to get away from the new guy, smiling a perfect cocky propaganda smile. The kind that deserves to be punched in. He scoffs and skates away to not to.  

 

 

Otabek comes along, hugs him, wishes him good luck and leaves; he’s the second to skate, immediately after Chulanont, after all.

Yuri hides in the most empty corridor he can find to warm up without being interrupted, listening to the cheers and woeful cries of the audience. Nothing but the far away screaming and the comforting stretch of the muscles on his leg as he pulls it parallel to his body against the wall.

“That’s quite some demonstration, isn’t it, princess?” Huh? This guy again?

He's been told _repeatedly_ to behave as a champion should. Apparently that means no kicking and cursing. Yuri’s having a hard time with it, especially around this idiot who seems to be stuck to him like a fucking tick.

“Piss off, moron.” Yuri lets his leg go and turns to leave when he feels the strong hand on his shoulder pushing him back, the stinging pain where his back meets the wall.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing, asshole?!” JJ is one thing, blabber-mouthed and annoying but he never did something like this, he never cornered him, never pinned him against a wall using the whole weight of his body, holding Yuri’s hands with one of his own above his head. Never looked at him like _that_. “Oi, let me go!” No matter how hard he thrashes and wiggles Yuri can't escape the guy's grasp. “What’s with you, pervert?!”

“Pervert?” the guy laughs. “I've seen you looking at the Kazakh. You have no right to call anyone that.” He takes the hand on Yuri’s shoulder slowly up, caressing a little path from his collarbone, uncovered by the short program costume, all the way up to trace his jaw, feeling the way Yuri flinches and tries to pull away, clenching his teeth and looking away. He takes the trembling jaw in his hand and pulls, forcing their gazes to meet. “A pretty little faggot like you should be thankful to even be in the same room as someone like me.”

The comment sinks in; Yuri starts trembling, his legs buckle under his weight. _He can’t possibly mean..._ He feels like his body is not his anymore: his limbs refusing to move, shaking, his voice loud enough to emit a sort of painful, muffled whimper.

“Don’t.”

The bastard chuckles, tracing a finger from Yuri’s jaw across the bulge of his Adam’s apple, to the neckline of his costume, tugging at it. “Are you begging now?” He follows the same trace up and Yuri can feel the breath hitching of his own throat while becoming shallow on his, hot, unbearable close to his face. He wants to scream, to run off, he needs to, but his body won’t respond to his commands. He just lets out little cries of desperation every time the contact with the other guy’s skin comes back, sinking into his flesh, burning a mark that he knows well won’t fade.

“I have been told pretty little fairies grant wishes, don’t they?”

The guy’s fingers move from the edge of Yuri’s lower lip to hold his jaw open while he gnaws and licks and tastes his mouth, finally letting his tongue slip in. Yuri feels he’s about to throw up, all his body pressed in between the wider, bigger, stronger frame of the bastard and the cold harsh wall at his back, still trying to wiggle out of the embrace, to no avail. His vision glassy with tears, the small thread of his voice still murmuring “pusti” in between sobs, unable to stop the intrusion, trying to zone out, to leave somehow, just…

“I have a wish for you to grant, little fairy,” He whispers against Yuri’s lips and pulls away, pushing his hips forward enough for Yuri to feel the damp hotness of the guy’s erection against his belly.

He puts two fingers on Yuri’s mouth, forcing it open. Yuri whimpers; he feels his stomach starting to twist at the bitter taste of the skin pressing down hardly against his tongue.

“I’d like to see if it’s true that pretty little cunts like you are excellent at sucking cock.” He pushes his fingers in and Yuri reacts, gagging. He pulls away until what could be a second, but feels like an eternity.

Something rings. Vibrates. The guy fishes his phone out of the jacket’s pocket to give it a quick glance and looks back at a whimpering, dry heaving, _weak_  Yuri Plisetsky and smiles, letting go of his hands and watching him slip into the floor, legs too numb to respond.

“The crowd is calling for me,” He licks his lips and pull a hand down to fist the length of his erection over the costume. “But I won’t forget about our date, Princess.”  He turns away.

“Be ready. I’ll be looking for you.”

 

 

Yuri feels his whole body shattering in a violent tremor, paralyzed until he can’t see his attacker on the corridor anymore. His forehead falls to the ground, arms clutching his body hard, as if he was a shattered wooden doll that could be fixed just by pressing the shards together.

He knows he isn’t.

He pushes his own two fingers down his throat, forcing himself to spit out the filthy taste off his mouth: vomit is better than that. Anything is better than that.

He stands up, somehow dizzy, lightheaded. Numb.

He’s got a competition to win, a gold medal to keep.

He doesn’t feel like a winner.

And the words echo in his head, merciless.

_Pretty little princess. I’ll look out for you._

 

* * *

 

He stands at the edge of the rink, head down, waiting for Yuuri to get off the ice. He is skating for s _trength,_ and that is what he’s about to show. He’s not a doll, not a fucking princess. He won’t break so easily.

He just hope the numbness in his limbs fade enough to make it happen.

 

 

The lights envelope him, and it gets easier: it’s just the ice and him. No names, there’s no need for them. No more breath but his own and the sharp cold under his feet. No warm touches against his skin, invading him, branding him…

The quad salchow becomes a double.

No more tongues around his body, no more nails against his flesh.

The combination loses rotations.

His step sequence is sloppy at best.

He hasn’t opened his eyes since, probably, forever. The music stops and he knows he’s doomed. It was probably the worst performance of his career but he can’t seem to find the courage to care enough to put himself through the Kiss & Cry. He still sits on the dreaded bench, lips pressed thin and glaring at the screen. He hopes the camera can’t catch the tears at the corner of his eyes.

His coaches say nothing, yet Yuri flinches the second Yakov moves closer to put a hand on his shoulder. They say nothing as they watch him head on for the dressing rooms.

They say nothing - they don’t realize as he runs from the building and back to his room.

He won’t give the guy a chance. Not again.

He wasn’t strong; the ice proved it. He wasn’t strong enough to push him off, to scream, to get out, to _skate_ as he should. Wearing his heart on his blades.

Otabek was so damn wrong all this time. He’s not a soldier.

He’s a broken puppet.

 

* * *

 

 

He has showered.

Showered, changed into sleeping baggy clothes as fast as he could so he wouldn’t have to watch his naked body one minute more than strictly necessary, pulled his hair on a low bun and gone to bed.

With his phone by his side. It still rings from time to time.

Yuri knows he can’t possibly have his number, but he can’t be sure. He can’t be sure of anything right now.

He can’t be sure of who’s banging on the door. He can recognize Mila’s voice but she’s not alone, of course she’s not alone.

She has the extra cardkey.

Yuri feels all the blood on his body vanishing, a sudden cold rush of wind filling in. He’s incapable of moving, folded on himself as he is, cradling his knees and staring at the door.

The lights are off but he’d know if it was _him_.

It’s not.

 

 

“Yura, where the hell were you?”  Otabek tries to remain calm, kneeling besides the bed, but Yuri can hear the anger, the fear on his words. Mila stays quietly by the door, turning on only the light at the entrance of the room. “No one could find you, why did you run off? Not even your coaches knew where to find you.”

Yuri says nothing, studying every little change on his friend’s face. He wonders if he’s still capable of loving him as he was before.

_A pretty little faggot.._

His heart sinks into his chest, his ribcage seems to suddenly shrink. Yuri can’t breathe. He looks at Otabek as to ask for help. To bring him back, bring the soldier back, not the pieces he used to be.

“Yuri, please…” Otabek reaches out to rest a hand on his back and Yuri doesn’t just flinch. He escapes, his back clashing against the bed frame (at least it’s not the wall), trembling.

“Don’t touch me!”

He has never screamed at Otabek. Not like that. He can see in his friend’s eyes he knows it too. Yuri wants to take it back, pleading, shaking uncontrollably, clutching the comforter in his hands. _No, please hold me, don’t leave me alone, not when he’s…_

But Otabek’s eyes are determined, fierce. Fixated on his. He doesn’t turn, speaks jusloud enough for her to hear: “Mila. Leave.”

She just nods and closes the door quietly behind her; she always knows better.

Yuri wonders what she might know.

“Yuri..” Otabek waits until he has the boy’s attention again, teary green gaze meeting hard brown. “Yuri, what happened?” Yuri only hides his eyes. “What have they done to you?”

The comforter feels wet against his face; his sense are so dazed he can’t hear his own sobs, crying out from his hideout, as if he was going to shatter just for trying to keep all of this… _rot_  inside. Otabek doesn’t reach out anymore. It feels colder than the shards of ice on his skin every time he fell during his program. Even when he asked for it.

Yuri crawls to the edge of the bed, their foreheads almost touching, just to scream his rage, the ache of the _corruption_ on his body at him: “Why are you here?! Why are you still here?!”

His voice drops suddenly, quivering: “I’m not! I’m not… I’m just…”

_A pretty little faggot._

He feels warm hands, comforting, not burning into his skin, not kneading into his flesh as to take a piece of him with them, cupping his face, intertwining fingers on his tight pulled hair.

“Listen to me, Yuri.” Foreheads together, eyes focused on each other, as if the world outside of them doesn’t exist anymore, Otabek speaks firmly, assured. “You are a soldier. You are a warrior. And warriors fall too. And they get up.”

Yuri fights the tears just to be able to keep on staring at the fire on his friend’s eyes. He knows he had it in him, that was what made them alike. It’s mesmerizing, contagious.

“You’re the Ice Tiger of Russia, Yuri. You can get up. You _will_ get up.” He knows he’s full on crying now, the tears stopping at his jaw, pooling onto Otabek’s hands. He can feel his fingers curling slowly, caressing his scalp. Somehow it feels like a lullaby, his words, his attentions. It calms him.

But there’s one thing that keeps digging into his brain, no matter what.

“Wh… What if he’s right?” he stutters, choked on his sobs yet still manages to finish the sentence before the soft sweet gaze centered only on him. “What if I.. If I’m…”

_A pretty little faggot._

“...Perverted?”

“What? Yuri, no.” Otabek pulls Yuri’s head up just to be able to see him better, even disheveled and teary-eyed and sobbing like a little baby. “Yuri, you’re perfect the exact way you are. You hear me? There’s nothing wrong with you.” He sounds almost offended, as if an offense against Yuri would be an insult to _him_.

Yuri notices the breath against him, not invasive, not stale and rotten on hatred and lust , just… Alluring. They’re so close, just so close he could…

His lip starts quivering again. He pulls free from his friend’s hands to push his head hard against the mattress, hand gripping the edge of it so hard knuckles were turning white, and yelled his frustrations away.

_I wanted it to be you._

“He robbed me! He stole it, he, he…” He feels a hand running delicately through his hair, as if he was going to break if he was pressed too hard.

He most likely would.

“... He put his… his tongue in my mouth, he…. He said…” He can’t stop sobbing, he can’t make up a complete sentence. His mind is a torn fabric, all holes and loose threads and his body is too used up, too exhausted to fill in the gaps,. All he can think of is the feeling of the bastard inside of him... He starts dry heaving again.

Otabek doesn’t stop caressing his hair.

“It’s OK, Yura… you don’t have to tell me now.” He whispers on his hair, “I just need to know one thing.

I need a name, Yura.”


	2. Brothers in Arms

He wakes up curled into a ball, his bed cold where he was sure it wasn’t the night before.

He had stayed with him, hasn’t he? He has asked and Otabek stayed. Like the good, caring friend he was.

A friend. Who would always look after him, and tried to reach him and make him smile. A friend who smiles like he had the secret to unleashing every vibrant color of the world behind his lips, and only he could make it shine so bright. A friend who feels homely, warm-not-threatening, under the slight pressure of Yuri’s fingers, shivering slightly at the ghostly touch.

_A pretty little faggot._

Yuri feels like he’s gonna be sick. He pushes his body forcefully off the bed, almost tripping on his own feet, to reach the toilet. Nothing comes up but not for lack of trying.

He pulls himself up in his feet, wobbling slightly, to stare at the puffy eyed, trembling excuse of a gold medalist, bones shaking and black circles under his eyes. He washes his face, changes his clothes. Hides it. All of it.

He needs to.

  


He walks down to the hotel cafeteria with his hoodie up, peering around every corner, shrinking from every person that passes, like a prey animal. He’s waiting for the final blow, but he can’t tell where it’s coming from.

He feels an arm around his shoulders, squeezing tightly. His throat suddenly shuts; he swears he stopped breathing. He stops walking, listening, watching any more than the portion of floor under his feet, fingers tingling like they’re trying to get him back into reality.

He hears a voice. It takes some effort to decipher the words.

“..tor, Viktor, let him go! Yurio, are you OK?” He knows that voice ,the accent, the _sweetness_  of it. He can’t look up; he feels he’s gonna fade. Still, he nods. “Breath with me, OK? Slowly, in….. And out. That’s it.”

He follows. He blinks rapidly, and the world seems to start over again. As if he just woke up from a horrible nightmare. About a dark hallway, a weight over him, impossible to slip from, the taste of sweaty skin pushing down on his tongue…

_ I’ll be looking for you. _

It feels like anger. It looks like anger, the way he suddenly grabs Katsuki by his shirt to pull him closer, seeing nothing but red, even after he helped Yuri. But it’s not fair, it’s just not fair, why do they get to be happy, cheerful, fucking groping each other constantly and he gets… this?

Is there something wrong with him? Something so thoroughly rotten in him that makes whatever could be a blessing for other people into a curse? Yes, he’s in love, and look what that gave him.

His skin is feverish in every place where the bastard’s hands were, the weight of his body; a sort of putrid maggots nest on his stomach, where his twitching cock was resting.

_...pretty little cunts like you are excellent at sucking cock._

 

He can’t do this. He can’t. They must be bolder, stronger… but he’s not. He’s just a scared little kid playing a game he doesn’t understand.

He lets Katsuki go, shoves Viktor off his side. He runs back to his room. Pulls his clothes off unceremoniously, sits on the tub while watching the ice cold water covering his ankles slowly, his legs…

 

He wonders if he could just sit here forever, let the water nurse the fire off his flesh.

 

* * *

 

He hears, he thinks he hears, a banging on the door. His numb mind goes to Otabek, as if trying to call him out, to bring him in. He doesn’t move.

Not intentionally. His teeth clatter.

The door opens with a bang; footsteps hurry around the room. Someone shows up at the door, kneels next to the bathtub.

“Yuri! Yuri what the hell are you doing?!”Mila reaches in to pull the dead weight he is out of the water, throwing a bathrobe on his shoulders. She holds him by his waist to get him to sit on the bed.

His eyes look empty: a dirty glass bottle green, no spark in them. No life.  She covers him with the bed covers and starts rubbing his arms furiously.

“What was that, Yuri, do you wanna catch something? NOW? You’re about to skate, for fuck’s sake!” He shivers, but not from the cold. “You didn’t show up to practice, Altin didn’t show up to practice. Fuck, even the French guy didn’t!”

He flinches, visibly, at the mention. Under Mila’s hands. She notices.

“Could you please tell me what’s going on?” She lowers her voice an octave, trying to be as comforting as she can, but Yuri can only understand half of what’s going on, his mind still paralyzed.

His voice is a whisper, a thin mockery of what it used to be. “How can they do it?”

Mila says nothing, just rubs his arm, softly now,

“How can they be so fine, and happy, and when I just, I..” he represses a sob: he feels empty now, there’s nothing to cry about. But the reflex is still there. “I didn’t _do_ anything, I didn’t even do anything, and he...he wanted to..”

Mila throws herself against him, holding him.

He remembers the first day she asked him about his parents: he didn’t cry, he wasn’t going to, but she hugged him with all her strength, with all her heart, nonetheless.

This feels just like that day. He feels nothing, but her pain breaks him anyways.

“Don’t let him get to you, Yuri. You’re fierce, you’re strong, you put so much behind you already.” she takes him by his shoulders to put  distance between them, to look him in the eye. “You’re the Ice Tiger of Russia, prove to the world you can defeat anything that comes for you.” She places her lips on his forehead in a quick kiss. “if anyone can, it’s you.”

Yuri smiles. He doesn’t even notice, but looking up at her, he knows she’s grinning just because of it.

She walks away, turning to him before opening the door again to leave.

“And when all of this is over, and your medal is back on your neck, we’re gonna kick his ass so bad his family will remember our name for generations.”

He realizes the laughter comes from him after the door is closed. She could perform magic on him, making him laugh after, after…

He still needs Otabek. And he wasn’t there this morning.

He readies himself for his free skate program. Strength. _If anyone can, it’s you._

He’ll show the world he can make it; not a punk, not a fairy, not a _fucking princess._

A warrior.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He skates first. His short skate program pushed him right to the bottom. Apparently, one of the skaters didn’t show up and got disqualified; no one knows why. He tries to look past the worried looks of his coaches and glides into the center of the rink.

He lets the lights pull him away from it all, He only has one thing in mind.

He can do it. He can push past and walk away from it.

Mila knows it. Otabek knows it. Yakov, Lilia.. Fuck, even Katsudon was there.

He’s tough, he’s fierce, he’s relentless. Determined.

He doesn’t remember any of his jumps, his figures, his steps. He just knows they happen.

He can do this.

He can pull through, he always has. He can overcome anything.

Anything. He remember the brush of his fingers like coal on his chest. His hands touches the ice.

He gets up, he keeps on skating. This is what he does. He keeps on moving, always. He skates for strength, for valor, for love.

For all of them. For him.

He knows Otabek is watching him somewhere. He feels the other man’s gaze like an embrace around him.

He ends in his final position. The crowd roars.

He knows he’s got a good score but he’s zoned out. Chulanont is next.

He practically escapes to the changing rooms. Otabek is leaning on the lockers, staring at his phone. Like waiting for something. He looks up.

“Yura.” Yuri comes closer. He stops. Otabek looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders slouching forward. He still smiles. Two of a kind, aren’t they, after all? “You were amazing out there.”

“I guess…” It isn’t Yuri’s habit to pass the chance to brag. He glances at his friend, the way the spandex molds against his figure. He feels a sting, like a dagger on his chest. What’s wrong with him?

“Are you OK? Do you want me to-” Otabek comes closer but Yuri flinches.

“Your costume didn’t have gloves before.”

Otabek pulls his hands back, brushing the knuckles of one with his fingers. Yuri swears he can see him wince. But it could have been just him. “It does now.” He smirks, and turns back to his concerned look, “Will you stay to watch me skate?” Yuri nods, and his breath hitches in his throat when Otabek walks past him to murmur something in his ear.

“Please do, I’ll be skating for you.”

 _I skated for you. Especially for you._ He can’t answer. He feels a shiver down his spine.

But it’s not the cold sweat he felt when he got to his room the night before, the one that strikes him every time he hears the bastard’s name.  No, this is warm, like a streak of warm water on his shoulders after a long day, taking the aches of the world away from him, cradling him. A soft tingling on his stomach.

He holds his arms around himself, unable to stop the smile, despite everything.

What is wrong with him?

 

* * *

 

 

Otabek moves on the ice like it’s his home. Yuri knows best.

Yuri knows he fought and cried and bled for it. He knows Otabek wasn’t this outstanding, he wasn’t a natural; all he's is through sheer willpower.

Yuri knows Otabek spent his teenage years alone, away from everything he knew, never being able to settle in one place. Just training. Fighting.

And now he’s asking Yuri to fight like he did, like he does. But not alone. Never alone.

His theme is Hero. Yuri knows it fits him. Otabek’s his country’s hero, after all.

Yuri’s own hero.

But that is not what this song is about. It’s not what this performance shows.

It doesn’t tell the story of a damsel in distress. This is a fighter looking up at the ones who fought before him. To hold them close, to stand besides them

This is a fighter looking up around the bleachers for his brother in arms. For his inspiration.

Yuri can’t even tell when he started crying.

 

Katsudon skates his heart out, as he always does, but Yuri is scared of looking directly into the light, the music that seems to emanate from his body.

He watches the performance through one of the TVs on the halls, hoodie up so no one can see him react to it.

He rubs his tears away forcefully. Katsudon skated for the love of his family.  

Yuri knows he skated for him.

 

And of course such an impeccable performance has to get the gold, even break the world record.

Otabek gets silver, a bit too far from Yuri for his liking.

Yuri crashed his short program but did magnificently the free skate, the commentators announce. He gets the bronze.

But the crowd in front of him is intimidating: the lights don’t allow him to make up the faces of those in front of him. Yuri can’t tell if _he_ is there. Somewhere in the back of his mind he feels him, stalking, hidden. He knows he starts shaking, not because of the way the medal bounces softly on his chest but because the way Katsudon leans over to him to speak.

Yuri tries to glare. Katsudon takes his hand anyways and hides it on his back, where it meets the warmth of another. Still in gloves.

Yuri knows there are cameras everywhere, that the news aren’t gonna be the champions but the way the Silver and Bronze medalists are holding hands on the podium.

He doesn’t care. He smiles. It feels so good right now; he can beat himself about it later.

 

* * *

 

 

He can’t shake the feeling off his body, the thought off his mind.

There must be something wrong with him. He’s not _meant_ to be like this. Viktor maybe, he has the grace to pull it off. Katsudon is married to his fucking idol, of course. But him?

He fell in love with his best friend like an idiot and got _punished_ for it. Threatened.

He’s not meant to be... This. He can’t be happy with this. But then Otabek shows up and there’s a silver lining. Nothing hurts as much when he’s there.

And he is. He hears a knock on the door and sits up, legs crossed, on his bed, telling him to come in.

Otabek closes the door slowly and walks up to him. Something inside Yuri lights up the second he sees that smile.

Wrong shouldn’t feel so right.

“Stand there.” Otabek pauses, a step away from the bed, and stares. He’s still wearing his motorcycle gloves. He shouldn’t have had the the time to ride today, not the way he likes.

Yuri just needs to know why. “Give me your hand.”

“Yura...” He protest but comes closer anyways, offering his right hand to him. Yuri takes the glove off and he winces. This time clearly.

“What did you do?” There’s a blue shade all across his knuckles, fading slowly into sickly yellow. Yuri takes his other hand just to check that it’s bruised the exact same way. “Beka.” He sounds firm for once, after what it felt like years. “He didn’t show up today, people say he got assaulted or something.” Otabek looks down. “Beka, what the fuck did you do?”

“He’s fine.” Otabek kneels to take Yuri’s hands in his: the bruises are still painful, but he barely flinches when Yuri touches them. “He won’t be coming after you again. Or anyone. But he’ll compete.”

“You could lose your medal, Beka.” Yuri watches him shakes his head and sighs. “I won’t forgive you if you do, you better be on the podium with me from now on.” Otabek grins and Yuri can’t resist the contagious nature of it.

But he does remember something. A sting, like a dagger in his chest.

“Beka.” He takes his hands out. “Stand up.”  

Otabek looks at him, curious, but obeys.

“Lose the shirt.”

“What? Yuri…” He wants to say something but isn’t capable to finish the sentence. He just stands there, stunned.

“I just… “ How can he explain it? He just needs to know it’s all in his head, maybe a delusion for being exposed to Viktor too much? Anything. Anything that could tell him he didn’t deserve it. “I just need to know something.” Otabek is not moving. Yuri is starting to think he’s not breathing. “Please?”

Otabek says nothing, he just sighs. He pulls the shirt over his head slowly, even flinching at one point or another where the fabric stretches tight against his skin. Yuri just stares.

He knew, at some point, what was under that shirt, but seeing it is.. Something different. Much different. Otabek has grown since they met, in broader shoulders and more defined muscles, the scarce dark hair on his chest a bit thicker than before, joined by  little dark line from his belly button to the waistband of his pants.

And all his lower belly carefully splattered in blue. No wonders why he didn’t want to take the shirt off.

“Look , Yura, it’s not as bad as it seems…”

But Yuri puts his head on his lap, shielding himself with his arms.

“What’s WRONG with me?!” Otabek tries to reach down but Yuri shoots up suddenly, holding his gaze at him, even through the tears. “Why am I like this? Why do I like you?” He starts sobbing in between his words but he needs to speak up. It’s way too painful, and _it’s Beka, he’ll understand._ “Everything would be fine if I didn’t like you, this…” he clutches his hair in despair, “this wouldn’t have happened if I, if I-”

He can’t finish the sentence in between sobs, and hiccups, and the shaking of his shoulders, and Otabek hugging him tight.

Otabek hugging him. Not to comfort him. He’s holding him like a lifeline, like his life would drift away if Yuri does.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.” he whispers into Yuri’s ear and his skin bristles at the touch.

“Because I can never regret loving you.”

Yuri swears his heart stops. His breath catches on his throat. His arms hold him tighter, his tears keep on falling, but not for the same reasons, never for the same reasons.

He loves him. Otabek loves him. And that is all he needs.

It’s like a shipwreck: all he had was taken from him. All in a second. And suddenly a boat appears, and there’s a storm, and the sea is vast and ruthless. But he knows he’ll make it home. They will make it home.

They let go from the hug eventually to look at each other’s eyes, pressing their foreheads together. Yuri feels a knot in his chest still.

“He took it from me.” Otabek doesn’t answer, just lets him go on. “I wanted you to be the first.”

“Your first kiss?”  He smiles at Yuri’s flustered nod, “Then do. The first one you want to give. This one is your own choice, the one that counts.”

Yuri hesitates, the taste of rot and shame in his mouth, but he can’t stop himself. Their lips brush, gently, slowly, savouring the sensation, the jolt the delicate touch sends down their bodies. They pull apart after what feels like eternity.

Yuri smiles. “Beka?”

“Mh?”

He pulls closer, murmuring into the boy’s mouth, “could you be my second? And third, and fourth and-”

Otabek doesn’t wait to hear the end of the sentence.

  


Before Yuri stands the bloody battlefield he must cross. He might not come out of it unharmed: he’ll probably end up bloody, scarred, exhausted. But always with his head up high.

He’s got his warrior by his side, and the best weapon he could hope for.

There is no battle impossible to win when love is on your side.

**Author's Note:**

> Pusti: Get off.


End file.
